


Caught Up And Hanging On; or, Hey

by Jenwryn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Backstory, Love, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-08
Updated: 2010-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of things that Dean Winchester doesn't say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught Up And Hanging On; or, Hey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crazyboutremmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyboutremmy/gifts).



> Hi, this is me losing my Supernatural fanfic virginity. Hopefully it's okay; I'm horrifically intimidated by such a big fandom, eep! It's also a case of me indulging my love for symmetry and what not, which hopefully doesn't make you want to slit your wrists with a plastic spoon, uh. Primary writing soundtrack was _[Twisted](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q451aWUm-wU)_, by Carrie Underwood, because I've also reverted to my roots recently and have become a little obsessed by country music. That song is also where the title comes from. ANYWAYS, time in this fic is pretty fluid; I imagine Sam's in his early teens in the first piece, but significantly older for the sex.

Another stretch of highway, another sleepy town. Dad's dealing with ghosts in the basement of a seriously old corner-store, and Dean's watching Sam working on maths problems. Well, no. Dean's watching some late night crap on the hotel television – a television which keeps snow-storming whenever Sammy moves, because apparently it's decided to use him as the antenna (which is stupid, by the way, because it's not as though Dean isn't taller). Dean snaps, _hey_, when Sam moves his head too far to the right. Sam just rolls his eyes, shifts back, and keeps on working. So Dean's watching the television, but he's maybe watching Sam too. He likes the way Sam's calculations appear on the paper; likes the smooth motion of Sam's wrist and fingers. Sam keeps all of his homework neat like this, from school to school, from place to place, even as the travelling pushes him from one syllabus to another. Dean finds it kind of impressive. Nerdy, sure, but impressive. Not that he'd ever admit it out-loud.

There are a lot of things that Dean Winchester doesn't say.

He likes the colour of Sammy's hair in the flickering light.

*

Another sleepy town, another stretch of highway, another school. A group of local kids give them the once-over with their eyes when they get out of the car. Dean doesn't care. At least it means he has their attention; all the better to get his point across. He puts his hand between Sam's shoulder-blades and pushes him through the café door, then gazes around in a way that he likes to think is protective and aggressive all at once. Dean's not going to be around much – Dad promised to take Dean with him on this job – and so Sammy will have to mind his own self for a few days. Not that Sam can't do that, sure, of course, but it's Dean's _responsibility_. It's what brothers do. And Dean's more than skilled at making sure that the locals get that message, even as he charms the girl at the counter, and Sam gazes around with a vaguely curious, vaguely bored air; Sam is Dean's property, and Dean's property isn't to be messed with. Of course, in reality, it's kind of more the other way around, but nobody else needs to know that. Sam heads to an empty table in the corner, and pulls a paperback copy of _To Kill A Mockingbird_ out of his back pocket.

Dean steals a handful of Sam's fries.

Sam just huffs and rolls his eyes, and keeps on reading happily.

*

Another school, another stretch of highway, another lonely mountainside. Dean's knuckles are white as he drops his shotgun and pulls Sam in towards him. Dad's god-knows-where, the hunt's gone south, gone sour, and, though Dean has already salted and burnt the remains in the unmarked grave – scent of smoke and old bones pressing in the air against his face – Sam's blood is still slick against Dean's hands. _Hey, hey, hey_, Dean keeps saying, as if Sammy were a little kid, not some increasingly gangly teen who's hard to keep upright against him. _Hey, hey_, he mutters, trying to turn fear into annoyance; works faster at stopping the bleeding. Sam's lips are ashen as gunpowder, but his hands are clinging, clinging to Dean's shirt. Dean pulls the makeshift bandage as tight as he ought, catching his breath, trying to steady himself. _Hey_, he says, then leans in, and kisses near the edge of Sam's mouth. And maybe Dean lets the kiss linger longer than he should, maybe, but all he can taste is iron and salt and Sammy.

Sam's lashes tremble, but his pale lips curve into a brilliant smile.

Dean's guts ache as if he's been thrown down and trampled.

*

Another lonely mountainside, another stretch of highway, another run-down gas-station. Dad's off paying, and Dean's got his eyes closed in the back-seat. He's supposed to be catching some sleep; _take it while you can_, that's what the old man always says. Sam's stretched out across Dean's lap, a tattered copy of _Macbeth_ splayed across one hipbone; he and Dad had gotten into some stupid argument about witches, thanks to that thing. He's quiet now, though, one hand up near his face. There isn't really room for the both of them any more, and Sam's knees are curled against his stomach. Dean tries to close his eyes properly, tries to stop looking, but he's lost in the sound of Sammy's breathing. He lets his hand rest loosely against Sam's hair, at the curve of Sam's head, his thumb against Sam's ear. Dean knows it's wrong, knows it's messed-up, but Sam's asleep, and Dad's not here, and Dean can't quite help himself anymore – Dean figures, so long as he never speaks it out-loud, it isn't real.

Sam shifts in his sleep, mouth wet against Dean's wrist.

Dean clenches his eyes tighter.

*

Another run-down gas-station, another stretch of highway, another faceless house. They're staying on a farm belonging to some hunter Dad owes a favour; guy's in Canada hunting nasties, and he'd needed someone to feed his horses. Dad grumbles at the idea of a hunter trying to keep both kinds of lives, but Sam just mutters something about how it's _kind of nice_. And it's weird, because Sam's up at dawn, doing chores as if he owns the place; Dean teases him about it but, truth be told, he kind of likes it here too. Maybe it's just Sam's mood infecting him but... okay, sure, so Dean thinks it's as dumb as Dad does, but there's something about the sight of Sam with a bucket of feed in one hand, and three-sizes-too-big boots on his feet, and the early morning light making his eyes gleam. So Dad spends his time doing Dad Stuff, and Dean ends up in the hay with Sam, bitching about how it itches, and laughing at the way it sticks to Sam's hair. Dean never can say how it goes from that, to Sam gazing up at him – to Sam, all still, his eyes huge and asking for the whole damn universe. Dean pretends he doesn't see, pretends he doesn't know, pretends he doesn't want it. _Hey_, says Dean.

Sam puts his hand on Dean's face, soft, quiet, and simply waits.

Dean hates himself, but their mouths fit right.

*

Another faceless house, another stretch of highway, another suburban sprawl. Dad's only going to be out for an hour or so, and he'd looked at Dean real funny when Dean had shrugged and said he'd stay in; _keep Sammy company_. And Dean reckons he's going to hell for this, and he reckons Dad would probably send him that way himself if he knew, but, for the moment, it's just Sam; Sam, straddling Dean's lap on the old lounge and sucking at Dean's throat, and all Dean can do is move his head to give Sam better access. All Dean can do is push his hands beneath Sam's shirt, rub his hands along Sam's back, shift them with the motions of Sam's body. It's wrong and it's furtive and Sam can't sit still, never sits still when he's touching Dean, and it breaks Dean into a billion pieces as his hands push and pull and search and need; breaks Dean into a billion pieces when Sam does the things he does, and they're going to come in their clothes and they don't have time for anything else but it's killing him, killing him, because he _wants_ this, because this is all he wants and, fuck, he's the oldest, and—

_Dean_, Sam breathes, moans; _just – please – Dean_—

Dean pulls Sammy closer and hopes it'll never end.

*

Another suburban sprawl, another stretch of highway, another skeevy bus station. Sam has his bag slung over his shoulder and his eyes look raw. Dean isn't sure whether he thinks it's good or bad that Sam's been crying. Dean's angry at the whole idea, of course, and envious, and frustrated, and a thousand things he can't even define, and he wants to grab Sammy by the shoulders and shake him till his head falls off, and he wants to give him his blessing, and he wants to kiss him, and he wants to go with him, and he wants to chain him to the Impala and never let him leave. It isn't as though Sam's been secretive about any of this. Dean knew it was coming. Sam had shown him the applications long before he'd submitted them. They'd talked about his chance at a free ride. Dean had joked about yuppie lawyers and bad suits. But Dean can't say a thing, now, now not, not when Sam has a bus stub in one hand and that bag on his shoulders, and his eyes determined and excited and miserable all at once.

Dean clears his throat, and thumps him on the shoulder, big-brotherly; says, _hey_.

He doesn't say that he's breaking.

*

Another, another, another.

It's not the same, with Sam gone.

Another.

*

And then Sam is back.

*

Another stretch of highway, then the blare of city lights. Vegas, and they've been hunting boggarts in casinos (boggarts, really – Dean hadn't even thought that those bastards existed, and if he has to listen to Sammy making one more _Harry Potter_ reference, Dean really will have to shoot something). Their hotel is as bizarre as ever, and the owner thinks they're gay (or maybe he just smirks at everyone like that, when he's busy handing out marriage ceremony leaflets, sporting pictures of sleezy!Elvis and shirtless cowboys) but there's nothing new to that. Dean's getting used to it, since Sam's come back; since his life has taken off again. Sam finds it hilarious, says it comes with the territory; pretty guns, sexy cars, batshit monsters, and people who confuse your relationship. _Not that it isn't already confused_, he adds, and gives Dean one of his looks, the kind that speaks volumes about how unbothered he is by all of it. Dean doesn't think that that's the point – Dean doesn't think he looks gay, _that's_ the point. Not the fact that Sam is sleeping against him, stupid big dead-weight, murmuring Dean's name in his sleep.

It's the _principle_ of the thing, Dean's manliness under scrutiny.

Dean steals another heart-shaped candy from the bedside table.

*

The blare of city lights, then another stretch of highway. It's the highway that Dean likes best of it all, actually. The road in front of him, not forever, sure, but the next best thing. The sky, the sweep of the lines on the bitumen as his baby purrs onwards. Music flush against his face. Lyrics, lyrics, poetry of the road, except that Dean is totally not the poetry type. Not even remotely. Sam is, though, and sometimes he'll hum along, mouthing the words beneath his breath when he thinks Dean is too focussed on the road to notice. It always makes Dean grin. He likes it, out here. He likes keeping rhythm on the steering wheel. He likes this life they've found, even if it is messed-up; he doesn't care any more. He likes Sammy. Maybe he doesn't say it as much as he should, because the words stick in his throat, caught even on the lyrics when they get too much; when Sam gazes at him, with those eyes of his, at just the wrong moment.

_Hey_, says Sammy, laughing, when he notices.

_Hey_, says Dean, and it's strange how much one word can express.

*

There are a lot of things that Dean Winchester doesn't say.

There are some things he doesn't need to.

*


End file.
